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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Nov 30, 2023 2:45:26 GMT -5
Home was something of a loose concept for Del. At least, it had been until more recently.
Leaving was not easy. It never was, but Del had not had a home for nearly fifty years by the time she had finally managed to stay in Darkveil for longer than a couple of days. Since then, her world had expanded in unanticipated and wonderful ways. A roof over her head, a place to sleep, a place to work. Appreciation. Hope. A family. Love.
Now, again, they were being forced to step away from things they had held dear, things they had fought tooth and nail to protect. Precious memories to leave behind-- not abandoned or forgotten. Reprioritized for the benefit of those who had no business getting involved with what Cyran and Del needed to do to survive. Walking away was hard.... but easy all at once. She had come to love Darkveil, for all its many, many flaws. It caused her pain to have to leave all that had been worked for behind. But looking over at Cyran as they carefully made their way up the path together, was cause enough to smile, admiring the way the rosy sunrise caught the silvery facets in his hair.
This man was her home, and there was nowhere else she would rather be.
Earning a little extra coin on the side would help them fund their way out of Darkveil and toward other pastures while they lay low to recover from the recent... upheaval. It pained the both of them to leave the orphanage, but it and the children were in good hands with Oriole and Andromeda. They would be alright. For now, it was time for the adults to worry for themselves, for a change. And speaking of so...
Del turns to look at Cyran again, squeezing his hand gently as they slowly made their way up the slope hill-- a husk where the volcano once was, the Deadwood now springing to life. "Are you sure you're up for this, love?" she asks, unable to hide her concern. Between Cyran stepping away from his Specter identity and the injuries, she was a little anxious at the idea of her beloved jumping back into the fray so quickly. "I know they said these Charred were easy to dispatch and I know we need coin, but we don't need it that badly."
Quest Name: Burned Memories Participants: Two or more Location: Anywhere Post Requirements: 6 post per person, 200 words per post Reward: +1 Renown, +1 Fire Catalyst, +1 Earth Catalyst Description: Mt. Drakolt's recent eruption and the arrival of Vulcadreaus has caused hundreds of unique, spirit like creatures to venture out into Charon, causing mayhem and havoc. The Charred are spirits of those who have been burned or scorched to death, with these specifically belonging to those who were sacrificed to the volcano. These Charred have now be forcefully pushed out and wander Charon with no purpose, other than to inflict the same pain they felt in their lives to others. We need you to help deal with a small group of Charred (5 of them) by finishing off the creature and allowing its spirit to finally be free of the pain and suffering.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Nov 30, 2023 19:48:05 GMT -5
Darkveil was not a place one often associated with the sun.
Cyran was not a man who often craved the sun or its warmth, but even when he’d moved to this city - a little over a year ago now, if one could believe it - he’d been struck with the sheer bleakness of it all. Warmth was an illusion; the sun, a myth. When Cyran had moved here and started his business, he’d hoped (perhaps foolishly) that he could create some of that himself. A little pocket of home even in the most dreary of areas, where even in the relentless heat and thick of the volcano ash, one would still find peace.
Little did he know, almost a year later Darkveil would find it in the aftermath of the very volcano’s destruction.
Trudging around the crater that had once been Mount Drakolt was akin to entering a different world. In a way, he supposed it was. In the sense that one walked it knowing it would never be the same again. Less a conscious knowledge and more the innate understanding in knowing that as you walked this path, the return journey would never be the same.
Finality. That was what it was.
At the very least, the weather was surprisingly pleasant, and had been since Cyran had woken in Del’s makeshift tent with a litany of injuries of his own making. Not by his own hand, but that distinction was irrelevant. Now, the sun beat on his head, grass and even a few new sprigs of flowers crunched underfoot. Cyran stopped in his tracks, surprised to see real, genuine growth sprouting upwards. He lifted his boot to find little buttercups stark golden against the green. Teeny little things, but the life meant so much more than their size. Cyran bent down and plucked one that had not been crushed by his treading, straightening and threading it through one of the button-slits on Del’s cloak, simply because he could.
Flowers suited her. Not just because they sprouted from her hair, but because Del carried with her a touch of the earth. Fitting, that she hold just a bit of gold that reminded Cyran of her while they fled Darkveil.
He took back her hand, marveling his handiwork. A smile looked much better on her than a frown, and she’d been doing far too much of the latter lately. Mostly because of him, but in part due to the circumstances that had caused their abrupt departure. Given time, the wounds would close. Given time, they’d be able to find some godsforsaken rest. For now, they trudged the remnants of the battle where life now flourished and spritelings danced in the bushes, in search of the last bit of coin they would make before leaving for good.
She spoke, then, her voice impossibly gentle. Still worried about him; not because she feared Cyran could not function, but because she worried he would despite his injuries. Not because he was a liability. Her concern, still, melted his heart in a way he could not put words to. Ever since he’d awoken she had been nothing but patient, even when he took the time to explain to her what had happened right before Vulcadreus had been summoned. It was not entirely inaccurate to say she was sweeping up broken glass. And she’d bore so much in the comparatively short time he’d known her, only to be saddled with one more problem, and he knew he should not be thinking like that but they ought to be planning their wedding and tending to the kids and the forge, not fleeing because of his own mistake. Not because he’d been careless with a blade and haphazard with the price of a life -
And perhaps he ought to have said no, but Cyran had been bedridden and invalid for far too long. He needed to move. Needed to expel these jitters. He squeezed her hand back, cuts and callouses slotting naturally together - the culmination of their hurts, for something as gentle and simple as a tether while they moved.
“I will be fine; I promise.” He was only slightly shaky as he spoke, fatigue only a minor undercurrent to the desire to move, and be productive. “Charred are pesky little things, but not especially terrible. Besides, I - I need something to do with my hands. Being bedridden for so long left me jittery.”
Not to mention he’d locked Spell Slicer and Cold Steel in a trunk back home, left under a floorboard under their bed in Shade’s valley. Simple combat, he was certain he could handle. But those particular blades, he would not touch. Not now, and likely not for a long time. He had to leave those behind with the Specter or else he was just spouting empty words and feeling sorry for himself. He did carry Wraithsbane, and he could rely on magic to take care of himself. That would have to do for now.
“Besides, it’s good to put the spirits to rest. Too many dead have been lingering around here. At least it feels like we’re… righting a wrong.” They’d not been responsible for the summoning of Vulcadreus, and neither of them could carry that blood on their hands. Still. Doing at least this much felt like it was rectifying a situation they’d had a hand in. Cyran, at the very least.
There was peace in that.
“Besides, I could think of worse dates.” He attempted humor, nudging her in the side. “It’s better than being trapped in a painting. And Darkviel is prettier than it has likely ever been. I should have brought a picnic…”
He paused, watching a couple of strange fae creatures that appeared somewhere between insectoid and butterfly flitted by them.
“Are you okay, hon? With this? Your injuries? You’d let me know if you were discontent or tired? We can stop at any time.” Worry, at least, was a familiarity. Much easier to worry about others than himself, and there were few he cared to dote on as much as her.
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Jan 6, 2024 21:39:18 GMT -5
Del cannot help but smile, a lopsided, dreamy thing, as Cyran tucks the little flower into the eye of her cloak. He found such wonderful ways to brighten her life, and though it was a small thing, it truly was no small thing. Always thinking of her, worrying for her well-being, even while he was still recovering-- and doing his absolute most to ensure that she was happy. Much as she would love for him to rest, she would not ever deny him these moments of sweetness and care. They were far too precious, and it eased her heart to see him so gentle. So wholly himself, even in these trying times.
As he took back her hand, squeezing it, Del squeezes back. "You are too kind, love." she murmurs, voice soft. He never failed to charm her so thoroughly. As far as his desire to busy himself with work, that, she could understand; the feeling of being idle, impotent to the world around you, was something Del personally could not stand. Yet another thing the two of them shared. "Alright." she pushes herself up on the balls of her feet to lean in, planting a quick little kiss to Cyran's temple. "We'll just make sure we take it one at a time, as much as we can. I have you and I'm here if anything starts feeling off."
After reassuring one another, they resumed their journey upward. She nods in agreement to that assessment; the Charred were souls lost violently, tragically, that deserved to find their rest. How horrible to be doomed to walk the earth after your own demise, cursed to that singular moment of torment, mad with pain?
Del had no frame of reference for such a thing, but the very thought made her blood run cold. It reminded her of drowning, in a way.
"I agree. The least we can do is provide them and their loved ones with some closure, give them some peace." An act that was no small mercy, given the states they were in. As he spoke up again, his tone light and jovial, it brought a smile to her face. "I still think that date was perfect," Del chuckles. "A picnic would have been lovely, though. We'll have to come back some time to do exactly that."
Something to give them to look forward to. They would come back to Darkveil. It was their home, and even though they would be away, it was not a permanent solution.
Drawn out of her reverie of picnics and the future as Cyran looks to her, expressing his own worries, Del listens with an expression of adoring amusement.
He truly cared so much about how she coping with all of this. It hadn't been easy on her, either; the battle had left her with a few more scars, some still healing wounds and fading bruises, and some rather extensive burns to her hands that would have been worse if not for Leandros' healing. Worst yet was the exhaustion. She had not missed this life of being constantly on the move-- perhaps her new home had made her soft. Perhaps that was... a good thing. And knowing Cyran was there for her was more than enough to make every second of this journey they were about to take worth it, good and bad.
As he nears finishing speaking, she leans in to steal the rest of the words off his lips with a quiet kiss. When she pulls back, it is with a soft giggle and a playful gleam in her eyes. "I am well, love, I promise. It has been hard, but I I would let you know if I was not feeling up to the task, and if I start to feel ill at ease or too tired, you will be the first to know." Threading her fingers through his, she swings their hands lightly between them as they resume their upward trek, gazing at him with a mix of seriousness and teasing. "And you will let me know if you are too sore to continue or you need a break of any kind. Agreed?"
Once they were settled again and on their path, off a little ways East, there's a sound through the trees, a faint brushing of the burgeoning undergrowth. Del's head snaps around in that direction, listening intently. "Did you hear that?"
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jan 14, 2024 10:59:21 GMT -5
It was far easier for him to find normalcy in caring for others more than himself. Simple gestures of kindness that reminded him he was human, that he was capable of them; and that there were others that were still willing to receive them. There was reality in the way she squeezed his hand, her kiss to his temple. He was here, and present - not dissolving in the shadows. It was not entirely accurate to say that Del was a light in the dark. She shined, of course, but it was her gentle presence in the shadow alongside him that he cherished.
He leaned into her kiss on instinct and nodded.
“We take it slow.” He agreed. It was all they could do. In the upheaval of their lives they’d been thrown every which way, to protect each other and preserve themselves from the aftermath of Darkveil’s upheaval. But at least they had a choice. This much could be their decision, and no one else’s. The choice to stop and grant one last act of mercy who’d been denied it in their death.
This act, too, reminded him he was human.
Charred, at least, weren’t terribly horrible threats. When one’s last battles had been against the amalgam of souls accumulated over centuries in the vessel of their best friend, and the ancient god of life and death and rebirth and all that fell in between, everything felt small in comparison. But the impact of putting those souls to rest was bigger than perhaps even he knew.
They continued their trek, drawing closer to where the battle had lingered. The crater loomed, the only physical reminder a volcano had ever once resided here. It was difficult to gaze upon the scenery and imagine what had transpired… but his body remembered.
It would never be able to forget.
Del’s voice brought him out of his reverie; Cyran nodded in agreement, resolved. The cultists had been the ones to collect so many souls and subject them to this torture. It was the least they could do to clean it up. Sending Vulcadreus back to his slumber hadn’t been the end of things, nor an isolated event. It was merely the beginning of a change beyond their ken.
“Mm. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.” He agreed. Though their outing had involved them getting trapped within the artificial, scenic world that had been born of an artist’s escapism, it had sparked precious memories he wouldn’t be able to forget. The beginning of something new. “Once we return, then. There will be plenty of the new scenery to enjoy, and plenty to celebrate.”
The promise meant a return, when things were not so bad. When it was all over - when things were better - they could sit and enjoy a meal together. Unencumbered by guilt or worry or fear or the return to a life on the road both of them thought they’d left behind.
Some of the tension in Cyran’s shoulders released at the promise that she was alright; that she’d tell him if he wasn’t. They were both old professionals at shrugging off injuries, at continuing to move through them. But if they didn’t look out for one another, then who would? When the rest of the world was turning against them they had nothing left but to lean against one another. And Cyran was learning that was more than enough.
“I promise to do the same.” And gods, his body was tired. But his mind was exhausted at the prospect of being exhausted. The battle of Vulcadreus had… sparked something, in the shadows that had taken root in his body. They stirred, even now. They were greater than he’d ever felt, but what was more startling was how natural it was. The shadows had embraced him, fully. It had created a schism between the then and the now, where then, he’d only used them. Now, it felt more like he embodied them.
The change left him with a nervous energy he wished to expel. He would be fine, until he wasn’t. And that was all he could do -
He heard the snap at the same time Del did.
Wraithsbane was in his hand in an instant, muscle memory. They were being approached. Spectral wings sprouted from his back, fluttering in the air - the elven man clicked his tongue, spreading his awareness further than his mortal being.[1] There was Del, next to him… but nothing else. A fact at odds with the sound they’d just heard. By all accounts, there was nothing in the clearing. Nothing living, at least.
He took to the skies, hovering in the air under the protection of a shadow cast by a cloud.[2] Not too far above Del, but enough to give him a better vantage point. It was there, in the distance, he spotted them. Three or four charred, ambling through the tall grass like will-o-wisps. But there was something… off about them. They were made of smoke and ash, same as any charred - but their wails sounded more like a haunted muttering in a language that Cyran could not understand, and their flames were an incandescent white.
Cyran tucked his wings against his back, dropping to the floor. The shadows melded off of him and returned to the ground, clinging to his legs. “Charred. But there’s something not right.” He murmured. Whether it was the fluctuations in the primordial energy of the world or something worse, Cyran didn’t know. And it made him… nervous. 1. Bat Wings 2. Dark Form (Shadow Dancer III)
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Feb 12, 2024 20:46:27 GMT -5
"Once we return," she echoes, nodding slowly, her expression wistful. She truly would look forward to that time when they could come back, be reunited with their loved ones. Del resists the urge to look over her shoulder, back at the city they were soon leaving behind, and everyone in it. It was not goodbye; it was 'see you later'. "We will have to make sure we bring enough presents and treats for everyone when we return." This was hardly a vacation or a backpacking tour, but they might as well make the most of it, if only for the sake of the children. Something to show for their extended absence.
Del only hoped that would be consolation enough.
"Good," Del smiles, pleased that Cyran would reciprocate the feelings of discomfort or exhaustion, should he experience them. She could sense that he was tired, deep in his bones in the same ways that she was-- the same way that seemed to leave him restless, eager to move and shake out disused limbs. As someone who could never be idle for very long without feeling stir crazy, she felt she understood fully what Cyran was feeling... though this new, deeper connection to shadow that he had was not a factor she could knowingly attribute to this effect.
The snap further down into the woods is an effortless distraction from these thoughts, the both of them thrown immediately into action, as though someone had thrown open the curtains in a pitch black room, or splashed cold water over a deep sleeper. As Cyran took to the air, Del got low, shifting with the shadows[1] among what little vegetation remained in the wake of the volcano's eruption, shifting to a tree in a better location to peer through the black. Invisible to all but Cyran, she narrowed her eyes at the treeline, straining to listen. Nothing but some vague sounds that could be the wind moving through the branches reached her ears.
Cyran returns quickly, alighting on the ground near her. She shifts from the darkness to address him and the intel properly, her brow pressed with concern. Cyran's nervousness was palpable, and that in and of itself was cause to worry.
"We can try to get behind their position and take them out?" she whispers back, standing close so only their voices could carry. Now that the creatures were closer, she realized that the noises she could hear were not the whispers of the wind in the trees, but the rhythmic mutterings of voices that could not quite speak anymore. It ran a chill up her spine. It also sounded familiar, though she could not immediately place where. "Is that them?" She could not say for certain whether it was the Charred themselves or something else, but whatever was going on left her with a sense of dread.
And somewhere in the Deadwood, that something smiled.
[1] Shadow Dancer I - One With The Shadows
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Feb 18, 2024 11:24:33 GMT -5
The thought of bringing the children gifts from the world comforted Cyran somewhat. He used to do the same for Marlow, once upon a time, before he’d settled in Darkveil and started planting roots there. Wherever he went, he’d collect her little gifts and trinkets, pieces that reminded him of her, or he thought she’d like. Each one carrying a story of his travels. Each one holding a promise that he’d meet her again and tell her where he’d been on his journey back to her. The trinkets now resided in a pouch among his things, and every once in a while he added to it… that Del would vow to do the same for the children of Shade’s Valley, a promise for a homecoming in the future, threatened to bring tears to his eyes once more.
But he’d cried enough for a lifetime in the last few weeks, so Cyran merely wiped at his cheeks and offered her a wobbly smile.
“Yes. We’ll bring them plenty from our travels.”
Any further conversation or assurances offered as a light in the dark of their impending future were cut off by the sound in the distance, and the emergence of the charred. While Cyran surveyed their surroundings, Del clung to the dark below, in event of an unexpected ambush. When he returned, she didn’t give away her position, voice quiet, tense.
Cyran opened his mouth to respond to her query when a sense of ancient dread that was not his coursed through his body, like being submerged in the depths of an ice-cold river. He tilted his head, brows knit in concern. Something about the situation had set Del on edge for reasons he couldn’t begin to understand or explain, and he suspected she couldn’t, either.
He reached over and squeezed her hand, voice a whisper in return. “Don’t worry. They’re not especially powerful on their own. Just mind their heat.” And as he pulled away, his comfort came with a spell, woven into her being, the same one he’d used to protect her from Vulcadreus’s initial blow in the battle for their lives.[1]
With the battle-readiness of a man who’d been ready to leave this life behind for good, haunted by memories of a tragedy not too long ago that started just like this, Cyran procured Wraithsbane from its black-leather holster and held it aloft in one hand, cold metal bared like an uneven set of fangs.
“I go behind, and you go from the front?” It wasn’t the first time they’d conducted the pincer maneuver, though it was the first time that they’d done so against a mob rather than an individual enemy. Del could probably take them out easily with her cold-iron touch, and Wraithsbane could take care of the stragglers. Cyran just had to play crowd control.
He waited for confirmation before pulling out a dart from his pocket and throwing it through the throng of charred.[2] A split second later, he popped up on the other side of the group, locking eyes with Del. Even amongst the chaos, he wouldn’t lose track of her.
Waiting for the go-ahead, he bent down and scooped up a handful of ash roses sprouting from the ground, blowing on the flowers to send the petals scattering through the air.[3] And as the Charred hissed and spat, recoiling at the sudden attack from the scattered petals, buffeting them and holding their attention, the ex-assassin charged, Wraithsbane at the ready. He’d slain countless before, but these were unrestful spirits, stirred up from their slumber by all that was wrong in the world. At the very least, he could send them to their grave a second time. At the very least, he could create an opening for Del.
The sooner they eliminated the threat, the sooner they could get rid of this oppressive feeling hanging over them.
1. Resist the Elements - Fire 2. Teleporting Dart 3. Petal Storm
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Mar 23, 2024 13:31:59 GMT -5
Her fingers threaded gently through his, accepting the comfort he offered. "Right," she murmured back, feeling more secure-- and moreso, again, as she feels his familiar magic wash over her.
If Del hadn't been so high-strung in that moment, she could have cried. The way Cyran looked out for her was so implicit, so warm and comforting, that it was impossible not to be overwhelmed by his care and attentiveness. Giving him a wavering little crescent of a smile, Del nods, feeling emboldened as she watches Cyran draw Wraithsbane and hold it at the ready. A little glimmer of his old self adapting to new circumstances. "Yes."
As Cyran flings the dart and vanishes, Del pulls around the tree, feet hitting the ground at a dead run. Cyran is there first, distracting them with effortless ease. The muscles of her forearms flex, coiling with a steel tension that smells of ozone and iron[1]. As he reappeared her eyes met his, and a smile finds its way to her face. Their lockstep never ceased to amaze her.
She hits the wall of charred like a battering ram, seizing one around the head and neck and flexing her arms in the opposite directions. Something inside the billowing smoke and embers snaps like dry tinder. The creature falls, rasping, the bones of the neck too disconnected to continue moving as the cold iron ravages what remains of the angry spirit. The creatures start to turn towards her, both trying to escape the petal storm and seeing their new attacker-- though the energy that emanates from her balks them as well. Simultaneously repulsed and drawn near, the charred begin the fray on the backfoot, driven by too many impulses to wind up being effective. Though they are no less harrowing to look at, or to watch as they recoil from her cold iron hands.
These had once been people, faces of the lost in the throes of the volcano. They no longer bore any facet of who they might have been, neither memory nor feature, but she knew what they were. Del is as swift and sure as possible in putting them down, methodical as she helps clump them together, reducing their ability to fight, weaving out of the way of their wild swings, and manuvering the creatures to give Cyran their backs, allowing him opportunity to strike when it was most advantageous. It's a careful dance, one that is horrible to have to partake in, but terribly necessary.
One of the charred in the middle of the pack emits a wail, not close enough to be afraid of Del as it thrashes, trying to ensnare her with its tendrils. She leans slightly out of the way[2], just enough for the appendages to harmlessly sail overhead. Her hand comes up, snagging it in her vise-like grip and yanks it unceremoniously towards her. She plunges her hand into the white-hot core of the thing, wincing as her cold iron skin makes contact with the creature's core. It emits a shrill sound, like steam escaping a kettle, and falls to pieces, no longer able to maintain its corporeal form.
Crucible?
Del freezes in place, and she turns, looking for the source of the sound-- a voice that had been in her mind. Behind her, one of the Charred seized the opportunity, reaching to lash out at her with a burning appendage, raking across her skin and shirt with the sharp ends of the tentacle that emanated from its core. Hissing with pain, she reacts, lashing out with her foot in a backwards kick that catches the charred in the centre of its chest, sending it flying back into a tree to crumple and dissipate. Shaken, Del stands still once more, breathing heavily.
Such a waste.
"Cyran, someone's here," Del breathes, fighting the rising sensation of fear in her chest. Still acting on reflex, she quickly dispatches another charred trying to float away from the dual pronged assault that was Del and Cyran, all while looking about frantically. The Charred were almost all gone. They should leave. "I--I think it knows me."
"A shame to see you have fallen so low, despite my interventions." The voice was no longer in her mind, but spoken aloud, emanating from all around them. It was hollow and tinny, greasy in its inflections, and appeared sourceless, at least at the moment. "Free will can be so troublesome."
Panic. She holds it down best as she can, but it is a bestial thing, clawing up at her throat with desperation. Swallowing down a mouth full of bile, Del darts to Cyran's side, standing with him back to back, digging into her own ferocity to keep her stable. Whatever this thing was, or this voice, it would not harm her Cyran.
One of the extinguished charred, shattered and still, suddenly twitches to life. It rolls over onto its back, the burnt husk's skull cracked with an unnatural smile, the sockets where its eyes were gleaming. "What blessing, then, that I've found you at last."
[1] Cold Iron Touch [2] Float like a Butterfly [3] Iron Grip - Brawler I
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Mar 27, 2024 16:52:25 GMT -5
Cyran was familiar with the power that coiled in her muscles - a sensation you felt in the air rather than saw. As if her passion was a physical entity, one which made the very air around her tremble with a single clench of her fist. She commanded attention; tore fear from the spirits which had previously been focused on him. Wraithsbane seemed to sing in harmony with her movements, chords interweaving to create the same haunting rhythm. Individual pieces which ripped the barrier between life and death apart.
The spirits flocked her; driven for their envy for life and warmth, as they were wont to do. Yet they were quickly driven away by the cold iron’s sting. Their flames popped and hissed, recoiling in anger. Smoke curled in the air. And Del and Cyran took their positions on opposite ends of the stage and began their dance.
Del was powerful - her presence, drawing the charred like moths to a flame. In their lives, they had once been people, yes. And yet, their death had twisted them, plunged them into the eternal fires of agony. The only desire left in their soul to make others hurt the way they had been. With renewed anger they latched onto the closest living thing they could find, determined to drag her down to the pit with them. And she commanded their attention, ducking and weaving through the fray with ease. Hitting them down in droves, and allowing Cyran to pick off the rest.
They had played this dangerous game before.
And Cyran was oh so horribly reminded that the brighter the light shined, the darker the shadows must reign.
Cyran did not need to fear the burn as he got close to the charred. In and out he ducked, striking their vulnerable backs with quick flicks of Wraithsbane.[1,2,3]
Just like he remembered, the Charred readily crumbled like ash in response to his touch.
And just like he remembered, their appearance would turn out to be a prelude for something far more terrible.
He did not hear the voice, and yet, he felt the stammer in the air. Like the pulse of an irregular heartbeat in his chest. Del… froze, and Cyran’s cry of alarm was not enough to warn her in time for flames to rake across her torso.
Cyran was by her side in a blink.[4]
One of the other remaining Charred sought to take advantage of her lapse - Cyran lashed out with a burst of pure, cutting shadow straight in its chest.[5] The creature let out a pained hiss that might have been mistaken for a plea, a squeal. One which fell on deaf ears. Dear had hardened his heart to ice, steeled his resolve. He turned back to Del, wild-eyed and lips pursed, and as she turned to him, panting, he knew something was incontrovertibly wrong.
He put his free hand on her shoulder, fingers coiling protectively around muscle. He felt nothing in the air. Nothing but the sheer, primal dread which had gripped Del. And yet.
“I think it knows me.”
The Crucible.
He sheathed Wraithsbane in one smooth motion, shadows stirring around him, as if responding to his anguish. A bounty hunter? A force of magic he could not understand? “We need to go. Now-“
The very air rippled around them with the source of the unknown voice.
Cyran’s eyes narrowed as he whirled around. The ex-assassin expected a hiding figure, perhaps one crawling out of the dark where they’d been hiding. Watching the two. On instinct, he and Del moved back to back, flush against one another, scanning the area for any threats…
Nothing.
Not a living soul.
The shadows pulsed and stirred around him once more - floating daggers manifesting in the air around him, ready to lash out in a split second.[6] The voice boomed terribly, its voice like claws raking down Cyran’s back. They had to go, they had to flee-
For a moment it was impossible to tell where Del’s panic ended and Cyran’s began. A crescendo in his heart, the frantic pulse of endless noise and confusion, the hurt, the desperation, the fear of a prey animal gazing upon a predator’s dripping maw-
No.
And yet, Cyran was as calm as waters after a storm.
He straightened, allowing Del’s panic to wash over him. Every instinct of his body danced with the urge to flee, to hide, to run, but Del was unraveling behind him, and the last remaining charred was approaching, and Cyran would hold himself together with his own two fucking hands if it was the last thing he did.
Back still pressed to Del, he turned to chance a glance at her. The woman who had been so endlessly kind to him, from the moment they met in that ash-stained alley. She owed him nothing; and yet, she’d given him everything.
And he remembered the promise he made to Eameia, in the months before the world went to hell. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to prevent her from being made into someone else’s tool.
And in that certainty, he found peace.
“Don’t fret, heart.” He whispered, quiet and calm. Certain. His heart felt light with affection; a swell of magic his body was not accustomed to, born from the bond between the two. A magic he was unallowed to touch, a law written into the stars before his very birth. Even now it burned the blood in his veins as the magic grew and took form - and where she was still pressed against his back, a warm light would wash over Del - a reminder, a vow, that resonated through their bond. A touch of starlight. A drop of courage.[7] Blood trickled down his nose from the strain of the impossible thing he’d just done, yet Cyran didn’t even notice as he picked himself up and stepped closer to the Charred. “It’s going to be okay.”
He would make things okay.
“She is not anyone’s tool.” Cyran spat, cold venom in his veins. “Her past is not your future to own. Leave, now. Drop your hold on this accursed spirit. Forget you ever saw us.”
Cyran narrowed his eyes. “Or I shall make you forget.”
He always was the most fluent in the language of violence. 1, 2, 3. Back Stab, One with the Shadows, Wraithsbane 4. Shadow Walk 5. Chaos Bolt 6. Ring of Daggers 7. Del’s Eternity Ring - a Touch of Warmth (self imposed drawback - injury taken using light domain)
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